Welcome To The Mind Palace
by highlyfunctioningmikyla
Summary: Every palace needs a king. So who's Sherlock's king? It's better than it sounds, I promise. Rated T for mind slash, drug use and child abuse.


**He guys**

**This story is a slightly dark one-shot, hope you like it**

**It's kind of AU, but not that much **

**It's basically the story of Sherlock's mind palace**

**Series 2 spoilers **

**Little bit Sherlock/John **

**Please review**

**Hope you like it **

**Love Micky xx**

**Welcome To The Mind Palace**

The mind palace had not been a palace to begin, only a small room. Strange really, how sometimes the largest things start so small. The mind room was all a four year old Sherlock Holmes had space for in his mind for. Nether the less it was a beautiful room, with stunning oak panelled walls that glistened in the sunlight that emitted from the head wall that was formed purely from large glass arcs that curled round to make a dome, the floors were silky purple carpets that were soft to the touch and pleasing to the eye, the furniture was all shining glazed oak a purple silk. It was a beautiful room but it wouldn't have been complete without the throne, the throne was the most beautiful thing in the whole room, it was formed completely from water like glass that shone in the sunlight emitted from the dome, it shone so brightly that little Sherlock would have to cup his hands to his eyes to refrain from being blinded by the brilliant light. But a throne is useless without a king to sit on it. One the purple silk cushion there sat the king, a small stuffed bear that went by the name of Basil.

As time went by, new rooms were added. There was a room for a fifteen year old Mycroft, in this room the carpets were red and the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of history and science and languages. There was a room for Estella the nanny that was used regularly, maybe a little to regularly, but Estella's room is always bright and cheerful, filled with happy memories of trips to the park and bedtime stories and chocolate flavoured ice-cream. There was a shared room for mummy and father that was barely ever used and when it was the hurtful sharp objects that filled it were thrown away in hurt and distress.

But mummy and father's room did not remain empty for long. The rooms were forced apart and father's room merged into what was now the throne room. He pushed the king aside and sat in the throne himself. Sherlock pleaded desperately with him but to no avail. And the bright beautiful room changed, the bright sky turned black and stormy covered in clouds and rain, the beautiful purple carpets and cloths leaked a thick dark red liquid, the stunning walls and floors formed the dark inky colour of bruises and the floor was sodden from the salty rain of tears. But worst of all the whole room stank of the intoxicating stench of alcohol that clouded the mind and made father do terrible things. The sun no longer shone in the mind palace, instead the hallways and room were always dark and ringing with deadly silence and the deafening sound of the screams of women and children. But worst of all Estella's room was burned as there were no more happy memories that could be stored there.

And then Sherlock is sent away from home, from mummy and father, to the place where Mycroft goes from September to July every year to live and learn. And the palace begins to change. The dark walls turn white, black scribbles cover them, the alphabet, numbers one to one-hundred, spellings, sums, times tables, numbers one to one-thousand and so on, names and faces, stories and places, myths and legends. As Sherlock grows the palace grows, new rooms are added that are quickly filled with new memories that his teachers say he will need when he grows up.

But for two months every year the palace changes again, back to the house of death and screams, to the sea of tears and stench of that evil intoxicating liquid. No matter where you run you cannot escape him, he is everywhere. Everywhere! No matter where you try to hide the evil king will always win, and heaven means nothing.

But one day, when Sherlock is twelve, the screams grow louder, so loud he clasps his hands to his ears, the blood flows quicker and the bruises darken. "Oh please let it end!" he cries. And for the very first time it does end. The next time he is in the mind palace it has changed again. The black and red have been replaced by white. It smells funny to, like soap and disinfectant, and there is a large angular red cross on the wall. And the evil king's reign of terror has ended. Now Mycroft sits upon the throne. Sherlock doesn't want him there, but there he remains, controlling what the men and women in white give him and who comes to visit him. And Sherlock never sees the evil king again. King Mycroft makes sure mummy isn't allowed to see him either, he says she will bring back bad memories. Although he wants to, Sherlock can't bring himself to delete the memories of the pain and the suffering from the evil king's reign, instead he packs them up in box and stores them away in the corner of Estella's old room that was burned all those years ago, the happy memories of trips to the park and bedtime stories and chocolate ice-cream now so warped and distorted by the evil king's malicious fire that they do not resemble happiness anymore.

Mycroft remains on the throne throughout Sherlock's teenage years, until he turns seventeen. Sherlock discovered what needles and white powder could do for him. Mycroft was overthrown, and instead of a king taking his place a group of shadowy figures took the place where the king would have sat. They were evil and terrible to look at, so terrible they made your eyes hurt, they stood hooded and hunched over, their skeleton-like hands bore awful sharp nails like knives, their teeth were long and sharp like needles. They wanted to drag him down to hell, but Sherlock didn't care. They _loved_ him. They loved it when he played with them. They loved to watch him dance. He didn't care that his blood spilled when he danced, or that his body grew thinner or his bones grew more brittle. Splatters of blood stained the floor beside the pile of awful pills on which the figures stood. The room changed too. Everywhere you looked the blinding light would make you wince, the light was so bright nothing could be seen other than they ugly demons. Mycroft tried to get rid of the devil-like creatures, although Sherlock fought to keep the angels there Mycroft did eventually manage to stamp them out, but Mycroft would never again sit upon the throne.

Instead Sherlock made his own queen. She was beautiful and terrible. She wore the most exquisite clothing always the colour of blood and her nails were always long and dripping with the thick dark red liquid. She had long dark hair that covered her face, with skin like marble, large blank eyes . Yet she was cold and distant, separated from him as if by a veil, he could never each out his hand to touch her, but that was never really what he wanted from her. She was the thing that he lived for. She was the thing that got him up every morning. She was the thing that stopped him going back to the demons. She named her 'Work' and he knew there would never be another that sat on that throne… or he thought he knew.

And then, at the age of twenty-eight, he met John. Brilliant, funny, idiot John. John got his own room in the palace. A room filled with cotton jumpers, smelling like aftershave, with sandy coloured carpets and jam-packed with all the precious memories they had shared. As his and John's friendship grew the room had to be extended to make room for everything, in fact the room grew so big that it was bigger than the throne room where the bloodstained queen sat. John's room wasn't simple like Lestrade's room or Mrs Hudson's room, on the contrary it reflected who John was, not stupid or annoying or spiteful or hateful, but beautiful. Because John was the most beautiful man Sherlock had ever met and he meant to whole world to him. John could never be replaced.

And the Irene Adler came along. It was clear what her intentions were from the moment he met her. She wanted to be his queen, she wanted to sit on the throne and rule his world. But he wouldn't let her. Nobody could ever replace the bloodstained queen? Could they? But if anybody did it most certainly would NOT be Irene Adler, The Woman, Dominatrix. She did get her own room though, not a very big one but many people got that, he room was filled with four letter or number combinations, so full it was never furnished. But once Sherlock knew she was S-H-E-R locked, the room served little purpose to him, but he didn't delete it, despite what others said to him he didn't delete it. The she died, sort of. In time he packed up the room and stored it away somewhere in the back of the mind palace.

"Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend." John asked, slightly sarcastically.

"I don't have friends!" Sherlock snapped back.

"I wonder why." John whispered, hurt.

Sherlock decided he would explore the mind palace, just to try and clear his head. He entred the throne room. But this wasn't the throne room, this was John's room. Where was the bloodstained queen? Who was sitting in her place on the water-like glass throne? Who could have _possibly_ taken the place of the Work? Nobody could ever do that? Could they? Sherlock approached the throne. The figure that sat on the throne looked up. Sherlock gasped. John. It was John that sat on the throne. It was no longer the Work that kept him living, that got him up in the moring, that he completely relied on. It was John. Brilliant, funny, idiot Dr John Watson.

"Listen, what I said before John I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one." And that one friend is the one who will always remain on the throne.


End file.
